Happy 155th Birthday, Canada!

I didn’t get to choose, I was born here—in Canada—and I will forever be grateful to my parents who did choose to come to Canada. 

Mom, homeless after the war, considered Canada a miracle country until the day she died. Dad, bitter about his mis-spent youth under the Nazis, embraced the open-minded Canadian attitude . . . along with the open-sky of the Manitoba prairies. 

This is a country that welcomes diversity, offers opportunities for newcomers, tries to acknowledge and reconcile with its past errors. True, we’re far from perfect—we’ll never be—but hell, we’re trying. We’re a big country and we’re big-dreamers. Cold and warm and trying to be friends with everyone while still looking out for ourselves. It’s not impossible. 

When I volunteer with new immigrants—my way of giving back to the country that accepted my family—I’m reminded again and again of the things it’s so easy to take for granted—like freedom to speak what's on our minds.

Opportunity is real. Law, order and respect are accepted parameters that we strive to maintain. My current and former EAL students from Iran, China, South Korea and Ukraine have chosen Canada as their new home, just like my parents did sixty years ago. 

We’re all immigrants, all intruders, all foreigners in this First Nations’ land. It’s a beautiful, spacious country to raise a family and grow old. Thank you for sharing it with us, First Nations’ people. As immigrants, we’re grateful and we’re trying. Forgive us for our Putin-like invasion, for trying to crush you and thank you, thank you, thank you for your patience.

Happy Birthday, Canada.  Here's some music to celebrate. One from William Prince, hailing from the Pequis First Nation here in Manitoba. The poignant wisdom of this song always bring tears to my eyes. 

And one by Jonny Hill that my dad, who owned only two cassettes, loved to play in his old Mercury.  The joy and pride expressed in this song of Dad's chosen country also brings tears to my eyes.

Happy Day to all! 

Faded Memories

On the Vistula Lagoon. . . 

Reading, or should I say—trying to decipher—my mom’s scattered memories . . . faded handwriting stuck between recipes and budget lists, is worth the effort, even when it’s a challenge. For example, in this one little notebook she mentions Graudenz, the town in the former East Prussia used as a collection point before they were shipped further east. Now Graudenz is in northern Poland and called Grudziądz.  It's about 200 kilometers from my bike path which had followed along the Vistula Lagoon . . . the same Lagoon my mom had desperately been trying to reach. 

With a current population of close to one hundred thousand, 
Grudziądz is a fair-sized town, twice the size of Manitoba’s second largest city, Brandon. Like much of Europe, the town was built around a castle and there were many battles between the Poles and Prussians before the Second World War and my mom’s fateful time there. 

It had been made part of Germany in 1871 when Bismarck created the German Empire (also known as the Second Reich) and by the early 20th century, the town was predominantly German-speaking (although many were bilingual). This makes me wonder if it's the same confusion that eastern Ukraine now faces with bilingual citizens, Russian-speaking and Ukrainian-speaking becoming enemies through manipulative politics. 

With the Treaty of Versailles, Graudenz once again became Grudziądz and many Germans left. 

The area interests me, not only because the town was a step along my mother’s journey to the Urals, but because my great-grandparents once lived somewhere in the vicinity. They left for Volhynia back in the 1870s. It’s a time and a people that I’ve not studied and know little about. I just know my grandfather was born to West Prussian farmers in modern-day Ukraine, then Volhynia, in 1875. 

Modern border between
Poland and Russia (Kaliningrad Oblast)

Between the First and Second world wars, the town, part of the Polish Empire, prospered as an important business centre. Military training academies also flourished, while animosity between Germans and Poles grew stronger and stronger—especially when the Nazis came to power in the Third Reich. By September 3rd, 1939, the Nazis had showed up with their cruel atrocities. 

A concentration sub-camp, part of the notorious Stutthof camp, was established in the town. Those remaining barracks probably housed my mom back in May, 1945 as she awaited deportation to her forced labour camp in the Soviet Union.  By June, she'd have been stuck on a hot, crowded box car, heading to the Urals. Makes me appreciate the leafy-shade of my peaceful garden even more.

All about Hedgehogs

Three reasons I wanted to learn more about the hedgehog. 

First, I just read an article from The Paris Review about a little boy refugee from Ukraine who could save only his toy hedgehog from his toy menagerie during a recent bombing. 

Second, I received a beautiful handmade ceramic hedgehog on my recent Interlake Artist’s Wave Tour.

Third, I spotted a live hedgehog in the Zelenogradsk (Cranz) bushes during my visit to the Kaliningrad Oblast. 

Three reasons that the cute little critters deserved some more of my attention. Here’s what I learned.

Hedgehogs are . . . 

1. One of the oldest species on earth, found throughout Europe, eastern Russia, Africa and more. They are now considered an endangered species.

2. Considered an omen of good luck by Egyptians who made amulets with hedgehog images. But later, in the middle ages, that omen of good luck changed to being an omen of bad luck. And even witches in disguise.

3. Night creatures who like to hide and dig under bushes. 

4. ‘Hedge’ ‘hogs’. Literally, that means, bush pigs. Moms are called 'sows' and babies are called ‘hoglets.’ Their name, however, is the only pig connection they share. 

5. Though tiny (fit in your hand), they are not rodents and use their pig-like snouts for snuffling in the dirt for their insect diet.  

6. A herd of hedgehogs?  That’s called a prickle! Some call it an ‘array’ but ‘prickle’ is much more fun. 

7. A happy hedgehog might purr!

8. While Shakespeare and Lewis Carroll saw them as evil, Beatrice Potter opened our eyes to their cute and cuddly side in 1905 with The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.  The character was inspired by the author's pet hedgehog.

9. The German word for hedgehog is Igel. And it’s as an Igel that I grew fond of them throughout my youth.

10. The German Grimm Brothers had a tale about a hare and a hedgehog.  It's the drawings in the link that remind me of my childhood readings.  The lesson to be learned is that it’s not  for us to be uppity and to judge a hedgehog for being a hedgehog. 

Maybe we should all just embrace our unique selves and be proud of who we are. Pick your prickle with pride. For all the children refugees in Putin's 'war', let's believe that hedgehogs bring good luck!  Hug your hedgehog tight!

About Setting: The Ural Mountains

Perhaps this tank I photographed in Zhytomyr, Ukraine
was built in Tankograd, aka Chelyabinsk

I haven’t been to the Ural Mountains, but it’s on my wish list. The mountain range forms the border between Europe and Asia. During the Second World War, Stalin moved his major industries more than 1700 kilometers east of Moscow to the mountains, (about the same distance as Winnipeg to the Rockies) in order to protect his war machine factories from the Nazi invasion. Today, we know Tankograd as Chelyabinsk . . . still a major industrial complex.

Not only did the Ural Mountains offer a natural protection from invaders, but the Urals are rich in minerals—especially the coal needed for creating electricity to run the factories. Other minerals mined in the area include gold, diamonds, platinum and copper. 

Canadian Mountains
for a Canadian Goose

But besides war-machine industries, the Ural Mountains are rich in natural beauty . . .a place for adventure tourists. Here’s a quick comparison of the Ural Mountains to the Rocky Mountains.

The Rockies run about 2500 km, north to south. The Urals? About the same, also north to south.

Highest peak in the Urals? Mount Payer at 1472 meters in the far north. Highest peak in the Rockies? Mount Albert at 4400 meters in Colorado.  Highest peak in Europe? Mont Blanc at 4800 meters.

Age difference? The Urals are old! 250-300 million years vs. Rockies at 55-80 million years. That might explain the height difference.

Besides my mom’s unfortunate time as a POW in the Urals, two other events highlight the area for me. One, the Chelyabinsk meteor crash in 2013 and two, the 1959 Dyatlov Pass mystery, which was finally solved and shared in January, 2021. 

For me, the Urals—part of Crow Stone’s setting—must remain a second-hand experience for now. At least I’ve been to the Rockies, to the Alps, and have had a generous dose of cold winters . . . the rest I’ve had to mine from books and my mom’s memories. 

 

Dressing for the Weather

Clothes, like cars, have become so much more than tools to hide our nakedness or keep us warm. Clothes say a lot about a person and we constantly appraise others, and perhaps ourselves, by what they (we) wear. Even without the influence of advertising, we seem to know who’s well put together, who’s got no taste and who just doesn’t care. Kind of crazy. Animals are much better off with their all-season adaptability. 

http://sa-kuva.fi/neo?tem=webneofin

Second-hand or vintage clothes are all the rage and my daughters seem to get a real thrill going thrifting and I’ve tagged along a few times. Yes, there are bargains out there, after all, our western world overflows with stuff.

But back at the end of the Second World War, 'stuff ' was valuable. Especially clothes. You wore what you could get. Sewing machines, tailors, department stores, fabric shops, all that infrastructure to support human fashion had been destroyed. That’s what world wars do. 

Soldiers eagerly tore off insignias that labeled them and became ordinary men again. Warm coats or boots stolen off a corpse were treasured finds. And there were a lot of corpses. As the snow melted and that spring of 1945 revealed the hastily buried, it was an ugly mess. But clothes and boots were salvaged for the living. Size, cleanliness, and definitely style, no longer mattered. It was all about survival. 

Matti Blume

Prisoners of war—those unlucky enough to find themselves in the clutches of the Soviets—were at the end of the line when it came proper winter gear. My mom, trudging eastward to the coal mines of the Urals, dressed for survival. She knew what Russian winters were like. 

Officially, prisoner of war garb was called Telogreika. These quilted jackets were stuffed with cotton that would be grown in the Soviet Union in places like Kazakhstan. I know that my mom wore such a jacket because of a memory she shared of a woman being close to a bonfire and the cotton catching fire.  

The Telogreika was warm but not too water-proof. No, they did not supply the prisoners with proper raingear. When I worked as a mail carrier, I couldn’t convince my mom that I had the proper gear for the Manitoba weather and that, in fact, I preferred facing the elements of nature to the artificial lights of an indoor job. 

Dressing for the weather is a luxury that I, growing up in Canada, take for granted. Modern-day “Telogreika” jackets are ubiquitous and every Canadian probably owns one. Today’s quilted jackets are filled with down or polyester and some are waterproof. Looking at images of the refugees in Ukraine, back in March, I noticed that puffer jackets are ubiquitous over there, too.

How we take the comforts of our closets for granted . . . until we’re on the road, fighting for our lives. It's been a fickle spring and I'm never sure what to wear. Peace time problem. 

InterRail turns 50 and brings back the Memories!

2022 marks the 50th anniversary of the InterRail Pass.  In 1972, an InterRail ticket, for youth under the age of 21, cost 235 DM and was good for up to a month.  That was fifty years ago? Unbelievable. 

It sure brings back the memories. I had several InterRail passes while I worked and traveled throughout Europe during a student work program. I’d just turned 20 and embraced the economical opportunity to explore Europe.  The InterRail Pass had to purchased inside Europe—as opposed to the EurRail Pass which was purchased outside of Europe. 

Countries to visit on 
InterRail Global Pass
www.interrail.eu

With the InterRail Pass, the trick was to buy the ticket in a small country because in that ‘home’ country you were required to pay 50% of the fare. So, I bought one ticket in Luxembourg, that tiny enclave amidst Germany, France and Belgium and then paid minimal to get back into Germany, where my co-worker, Renate, lived in Saarburg near Trier. Then, I could basically travel throughout West Germany to my heart’s content. 

My home base was Berchtesgaden in the extreme south end—two hours from Munich and half an hour to Salzburg. In Berchtesgaden, a mountain town geared towards tourism—partly because of the American military recreational centre located at Hotel General Walker after the defeat of Hitler, and partly, because it’s just an absolute gorgeous setting in the mountains— I was guaranteed to get work in a Pension or restaurant and made lifelong friends in this friendly Bavarian town. 

My family connections, however, were at the opposite end of Germany, on the North Sea, north of Hamburg. Thankfully, my InterRail ticket could cover that long and expensive journey. Of course, I travelled outside of Germany too—a completely wonderful adventure. I slept in trains, hostels, train stations and lived out of a small backpack. I ate irregularly, got confused with all the different currencies, met the most interesting people and have barely a bad memory. Getting lost, going hungry, and meeting weirdos was just part of the experience. 

InterRail travel was a huge part of my journey towards independence. My own three children, whom I encouraged to do the same, haven’t been quite as passionate about travel. I’m not sure why the seventies had such a travel allure. Europe bustled with young people carrying backpacks. Traveling through Europe, some of it on my own, changed my life in many ways. I came back to Canada, reluctantly, but with a yearning to understand more about my roots. That was before I understood what the Soviet Union had done to my mother’s family—before the collapse—which opened up a whole new frontier for exploring my roots. 

Train travel is not known to be economical here in Canada, but there are cross-country passes available and with the rising cost of fuel, collapse of Greyhound, and an aging population nostalgic for the youthful days of InterRail, perhaps it's something to check out.  

Inside VIA coach Marcus.Dyck

In any event, Europe’s InterRail Pass no longer targets only the young. It’s grown old right along with me. By the eighties, the train pass described youth as under 26 and by the late nineties there were no more age restrictions. Yes! There just might be another InterRail journey in my future.  But the world is incredibly unstable right now and I, for one, am not ready to be a ‘tourist’ abroad. 

Thankfully, I have books to read and interesting people to meet right here in this prairie city. And even without an InterRail Pass, life continues to be an adventure. Now where’s my backpack?

Prisoners of History

RIAN_archive_129359_
German_prisoners-of-war_1944
in_Moscow.jpg

Like most of the world, I’ve been following the Ukraine War with great interest. This past week, there were headlines about the first Russian prisoner of war, charged with war crimes. A 21-year-old Russian has been found guilty of shooting a 62-year-old man on a bicycle. He was ordered to shoot and he did. The widow of the civilian feels sorry for the young soldier, now sentenced to life in prison, but can’t forgive him. Of course not. Forgiveness and healing take time. Will we ever forgive Putin for starting this mess?  

Besides perpetrators of specific war crimes, there are regular prisoners of war. The Ukrainian survivors of the valiant Mariupol siege are now prisoners of war. Supposedly up to 1700 Ukrainian soldiers are in Russian hands. Not an enviable fate. Being formally registered by the Red Cross so that humane treatment can be guaranteed under the Geneva Convention, doesn’t seem all that reassuring.

Bundesarchiv_Bild_101I-187-0203-06A,_
Russland,_1941
Russische_Kriegsgefangene.jpg

During the Second World War, because the USSR had not signed onto the 1929 Geneva Convention, the Nazis did not feel obligated to follow it.  Soviet soldiers captured by Nazis were thus doomed to death by starvation or complications from disease. (And they’d thought life in the Soviet Union with Stalin had been tough.) Two out of every 3 Soviet prisoners died without any ammunition wasted on them.

Public Domain, Russian prisoners of war near
Sumy, April, 2022

Revenge was inevitable and when Germany finally capitulated, people like my dad—once a pilot for the Luftwaffe, later a member of the Military Police on the East Front—ended up in terrible camps with equally high mortality rates. And to make-up perhaps, for all those forced Ostarbeiter, people like my mom—who’d never been in the military, or any Nazi groups, a young woman, forced to spend the war years in a munitions’ factory—slaved like a workhorse in open pit mines of the Urals. 

And now with social media and instant news, there's so much more propaganda regarding treatment of war criminals I can barely believe that the news headlines today are about current events. How can this all be happening again?